Life, Death and Other Career Options
by Snape's Nightie
Summary: Harry and Snape are trapped in a magicless room when Snape goes into labour. This, and the other major events which lead Harry to choose his unexpected career. No slash. Mpreg


Disclaimer: Like all my fics, the characters and situations belong to JK Rowling and the chosen few with the right to use them (Bloomsbury, WB etc.). I'm just borrowing them for non-profitmaking entertainment and mean no disrespect.

Non HBP compliant. Not slash and definitely not NOT HP/SS. Still can't write that! Mpreg, but no ships and no hanky-panky. There's a few rude words, too.

…….

It was a lovely night, Harry reflected, nursing his empty coffee cup in the little garden behind St Mungo's. He was tired but peaceful, feeling as close to contentment he ever had in his 32 turbulent years. Whether or not he deserved to was another matter.

He put down his cup and rubbed his eyes. The courtyard clock chimed four o'clock. He really should go back inside, but the air was so balmy and the world so tranquil he allowed himself one more minute. He chuckled quietly. The great Harry Potter, still something of a legend even now, years later; happiest while sitting alone in the dark and reflecting on a job well done.

The path he had chosen had raised many eyebrows, as people expected greater, showier, more glamorous things from the boy-who-killed-Voldemort, but Harry really did not care. He considered his current situation to be the only rewarding option, having lived the life he had.

Ridiculous, really, but that is what war does to people.

…….

Sixteen years earlier.

…….

"Potter!"

Only one person was capable of injecting so much venom into a single exclamation. Cursing his lack of foresight in leaving the Marauders' Map in his dormitory, Harry spun around to see Snape swooping down the corridor, nostrils flaring and face contorted in fury.

It was a strange thing, but in all his midnight ramblings so far this year, not once had he seen the taciturn Head of Slytherin on his nightly patrol. For five years he and his friends had grown accustomed to the phenomenon of Snape-avoidance, yet each pre-emptory glance at the map before nocturnal expeditions revealed the man to be safely in his chambers, except for the odd occasion when he was inexplicably installed in the kitchen.

Hermione had become convinced that Snape had some kind of illness this year. Her suspicions had first been aroused at the welcoming feast, when Dumbledore had announced his appointment as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. Instead of the anticipated smug expression, he had looked rather distracted, as though avoiding the sight of anything edible at the head table was more important than celebrating his hard-won victory.

His face had remained gaunt and pale throughout the autumn term. By October, Hermione had been seriously considering a visit to the Headmaster to ask if he was really ill, or if his Order duties were taking too much out of him. At the Halloween feast, even Ron had admitted that Snape looked as though he had been starved, and was at a loss to understand how anyone could resist the delicious Hogwarts fare. His personal theories involved zombyism and vampires. During DADA lessons, Snape's temper was even more unpredictable than it had been in potions and he relied heavily on theory at the expense of practical spellcasting. After all the years of hearing the man complain about brats who were not taught properly by the useless string of Defence teachers, even Harry found that odd.

In early November, there had been a sudden change. At mealtimes, he was seen piling his plate with second helpings of everything, and even thirds. His face filled out and he began to look better than ever – even the lankness of his hair lessened. In certain lights, Ron had remarked one day, he actually looked like a normal human being. Hermione relaxed her concerns somewhat, but was still puzzled at the lack of late-night stalking.

It was Harry who noticed that he was absent from the Slytherin-Ravenclaw Quidditch game in February. Ron opened up the map and frowned at the dot labelled 'Severus Snape', sitting alone in its chambers.

"I don't think he's _ever_ missed a match," he whispered to the others. They all looked over to the teacher's enclosure, where Professor Sinistra had her nose buried in a book, evidently considering the green scarf wrapped around her hatband to be enough of a gesture towards encouraging her team. Once or twice, Malfoy called out for an odd bit of advice, which was met with a disinterested shrug, or the memorable comment; "I should try to catch that snitch-thingy if I were you, Lucius." Gryffindor roared with laughter at Draco's horrified expression.

"She's totally away with the fairies!" gaped Hermione. "Snape'll go crazy!"

"Who cares?" yelled Ron gleefully, delighted at someone else being mistaken for a different member of their family, for once.

Not long after this, Hermione watched the professor making his way to the far end of the Slytherin table to speak to some first-years one breakfast time.

"Why is he walking like that, do you suppose?" she murmured.

"Like wha'?" asked Harry and Ron in unison, minds occupied with bacon, sausage and black pudding.

"Slowly," she said. "Carefully. He usually charges around like a bat out of hell. He's stopped slamming doors too, have you noticed?"

"P'raps he's hurt," suggested Harry. It was possible. Who knew what dangerous things he had to do for Dumbledore and Voldemort. "That would explain why he never gets out of his seat during class, too."

All of these curious incidents flashed through Harry's mind as the man in question swooped towards him in the corridor, that night in late March.

"Sir!" he exclaimed. "I didn't think you'd be out!"

The sneer intensified and Harry almost kicked himself for the asinine comment.

"It is true that I have missed countless opportunities to save your worthless carcass from the peril in which you feel the need to constantly place yourself," his voice was icy, but he refrained from looming over the teenager or invading his personal space, as he used to during potions in previous years.

"Er…" began Harry.

"So it seems that I shall have to make up for all those other times this evening," he continued, lip curling with malicious joy. "Fifty points from Gryffindor and detention every night with Mr Filch for the next month for being out after curfew and up to no good. For all three of you."

"Hey!" protested Harry. "The others aren't even here! And I'm not doing anything wrong!"

Snape peered into the shadows, as though hoping to spot Ron and Hermione lurking nearby.

"I suspect they had a hand in the plotting of this mischief, even if they are not directly involved," he spat. "That's one hundred and fifty points…"

"You can't!"

"Watch me!" he leered.

"No!" yelled Harry, stepping forward to protest.

The expression of fear in the cruel black eyes took him completely by surprise. Snape jerked back away from him, lost his balance and stumbled against the stone wall, throwing a thin hand out to stop himself from falling. When it touched one of the blocks, the whole wall began to vibrate gently.

"Sorry," breathed Harry, not certain what he was reflexively apologising for. "What's happening to the stones?"

Snape snapped his head round sharply, as though he hadn't noticed anything amiss.

"I suppose a staircase or secret passage is changing on the other side of this wall. Perhaps I triggered the movement when I…placed my hand on it," he was still leaning inelegantly against the wall, his other arm wrapped around his stomach, in such a vulnerable position that before he could stop himself, Harry had reached out to help him up.

The next part happened so quickly that he had hardly blinked before it was over.

Snape shrank back from him, pressing further into the wall. The masonry behind him gave a scraping creak and a piece of wall about six feet square vanished, leaving a black hole spewing musty old air into the corridor. Snape's face registered blind panic as he realised he was now leaning against empty space, but was too ill-balanced to step forward to safety. Harry shot out to grab him, but as they joined hands it was not Harry who ended up pulling Snape upwards, but Snape who slipped backwards taking Harry with him.

There was a rush of blackness, two screams and a painful thump.

A rapid inventory of his body revealed that Harry was not badly hurt, though a graze on his elbow made him swear to himself. Taking in his surroundings, he watched a square hole in the ceiling – presumably the one they had fallen through – recede, closed up by more mobile masonry. Apart from that sealed exit, there appeared to be no other way in or out of the tiny room, not a door, a window, not even a grille for ventilation. One small torch in a sconce burned on one wall, the only adornment.

A pained groan reminded Harry that he was not alone.

"Sir?" he asked, careful to keep his distance this time. Snape groaned again.

"Potter. Where on earth have you dragged me?" he moaned.

"Oh. I was hoping you'd know," the boy confessed. "Only, there doesn't seem to be a way out and…"

The wince and intake of breath took Harry by surprise. With the self-centred optimism of youth, he had assumed that because he had survived the fall with nothing more than a scrape, that the older man must have done the same. Evidently, by the way he remained crumpled on the floor, making pained sounds and clutching his abdomen, this was not the case.

"Sir?" he asked again, kneeling down, still not too close.

"Shit," replied the professor, breathing harshly. "Shit, shit. Not this. Not now. Merlin! Ouch!"

"Where does it hurt?" Harry's voice wavered slightly. His knowledge or first aid was scant, his inclination to touch any part of Snape non-existent. He could not decide whether he was relieved or concerned that his fellow prisoner was ignoring him, muttering curses and small sounds of misery to himself instead.

"I'll call for some help," Harry decided, pulling out his wand. He pointed it at one of the walls and voiced the spell for sending out distress sparks.

Nothing happened.

Checking his wand for damage, Harry felt panic begin to rise in his stomach as no cracks or breaks were visible. He repeated the spell. Still nothing. He tried a patronus, with the same non-result.

"Sir," he addressed Snape reluctantly, bracing himself for a scathing comment. "My wand isn't working. You'll have to send a message."

"Oh, for God's sake," whimpered Snape, then glared. "What, Potter?"

"Sorry. I just thought wizards always swore by Merlin," he said sheepishly.

Black eyes rolled.

"You are not the only half-blood in the village, Mr Potter," he snapped. "Under duress I have been known to lapse into muggleism. By the same token I sometimes find it more satisfying to forgo magical assault and simply thump an adversary in the kidneys." Harry didn't doubt this revelation for a second, swallowing in case he recovered from whatever was ailing him and did so now. "Well then, what is all this nonsense about your wand?"

"Won't work. Look," he tried to cast 'lumos' as a demonstration. The wand remained as unresponsive as a solitary chopstick.

"Pathetic," muttered Snape, then, seized by another spasm, curled in on himself, groaning pitifully. After a few seconds he recovered enough to reach for his own wand and tried some sparks, with no greater success.

"Why won't our magic work?" The panic which had been trembling inside Harry broke to the surface. "We're stuck in here with no way out! What's happening? Is it Voldemort? Is your Dark Mark burning? Because my scar isn't. What…"

"Shut your noise, boy," ordered Snape, still a commanding presence despite his recumbent pose. "It is obvious that we have become trapped in a magically-dampened secret chamber of the castle. Unless you can find a means of escape, I fear we shall remain here until we are missed and a search party sent out."

Unimpressed with the idea of spending a night lying on cold stone in close proximity to a wounded Snape, Harry probed every inch of the room with his fingers, checking for hidden passages, loose stones, secret entrances or anything at all which would get them out of there.

Half an hour later, he sat down abruptly, exhausted from effort and thwarted anticipation.

"Well?" drawled Snape, between heaving breaths.

"Nothing," Harry sulked, tucking his legs up underneath him as he tried to get comfortable. "We're here until someone comes to get us." Despair flooded the cell as Harry struggled to remain calm. He had been in tighter spots than this before, but somehow the claustrophobic nature of the prison, combined with the company, was making him depressed. He tried cheering himself up. "Ron and Hermione will tell Dumbledore when I don't show up for breakfast. If everyone is organised we should be out of here before the start of lessons tomorrow morning."

There was silence for a few moments, before Snape murmured:

"Tomorrow might be too late for me."

Harry's head jerked up and he looked at his teacher properly for the first time since the fall. The capacious black robes were rumpled over his body, which was still curled up, leaving him half-lying on his side, only keeping his head off the stone floor with some effort. He was still periodically making noises of pain, screwing his eyes shut and swearing under his breath. Crawling over to him, Harry stared, wishing he knew what to do. Eventually, he slipped off his school robe and balled it up, placing it under Snape's head. Snape glared, but allowed the action, lying back onto the improvised pillow without a word.

"Have you broken some bones?" he ventured. "Or are you ill? Hermione thought you looked unwell at the beginning of the year…"

"Granger, I might have known," he grimaced. "Too clever by half, that girl."

Not wanting to rush a potentially interesting story, Harry folded his arms across his chest and waited patiently. After a fresh series of shooting pains, Snape lay back, panting quietly.

"I am not ill, Mr Potter," he breathed. "I am pregnant."

"Pardon?" said Harry. "I think my ears are playing tricks."

"_Preg-nant,_" Snape repeated, as though to an idiot. "You heard me. Pregnant. In trouble. Up the duff. In the family way. Knocked up. Enceinte. A bun in the oven. A cake in the cauldron. Eating for two. Spawning…"

"OK, OK, I get it," said Harry quickly. "I…I had no clue."

"I see no reason why you should have. Only Pomfrey and the Headmaster know, which is why I have been retired from active service in the Order. The old man has become highly irritating in his interference."

"I think the word is 'protective'," Harry automatically defended Dumbledore, though he could imagine the man's child-like excitement at the thought of having a baby to play with.

"Mmm," went Snape. "I only kept the blasted thing because of his meddling. I told him if he used his twinkly emotional blackmail to force me not to abort, then he could bloody well help me raise it."

"So what did he say to that?" Harry grinned, having a pretty fair idea.

"He squealed in delight and rushed across the room to _cuddle_ me," from the tone of the words, anyone would have thought Snape had just described a perverted practice of gut-churning depravity.

They fell into silence as the teenager digested all this information. That would certainly explain the odd behaviour. He looked more closely as the prone figure and spotted a large round belly, looking incongruous in the middle of Snape's scrawny frame.

"Concealment charms?" he asked. The professor nodded, then glanced down at himself.

"Oh, yes. I suppose they have failed too, if the area is magic-resistant?"

"I can see the bump, if that's what you're asking," Harry told him.

There were another two fits of pain and cursing before Harry's thought process caught up with what was happening. He scrambled to his feet and pressed himself against the opposite wall.

"Shit! Sir! You're in labour!" he cried in horror.

"One point to Gryffindor for having half a braincell," even in extremis, Snape could wither with the best of them. "Four weeks too soon, if my calculations are correct. I expect the fall triggered it. Unless you possess an extraordinary talent for muggle-style midwifery without the aid equipment, then I expect both I and the child will be dead before assistance arrives."

"Oh, shit," said Harry, after a moment.

"Indeed," said Snape faintly.

There was nothing else he could say to that. Harry knew next to nothing about babies or birth, and was aware that Snape would not wish to hear that his only experience of the procedure had been helping Hagrid to help a mother thestral who had got into difficulties delivering her twin thesfoals. At the time, he had considered himself unfortunate for being coerced into witnessing the event, but being alone in a locked room while Snape went through it would be ten times worse. If only he had paid closer attention to Hagrid instead of averting his eyes from all the yucky business, he might stand a chance of being able to do something to help Snape.

Or perhaps not. Human beings were completely different creatures, after all. Not to mention the fact that male pregnancies were much more dangerous in the first place, usually requiring medi-magical intervention by scores of trained healers. Harry hated to admit it, but unless a miracle happened very soon, he was probably going to witness Snape and his unborn baby dying in agony. He got to his feet.

"Help!" he shouted. Snape turned his head lazily, watching him with disinterest. "It's worth a try," Harry shrugged to him. He shouted again and again in every direction, listening carefully for any response, hammering on the walls until his fists hurt. Then he called Dobby's name, then Winky's when there was no answer.

"Elves will not come to a non-magical area," Snape said quietly.

"Dobby came to my muggle relatives' house once!" argued Harry.

"Yes," the professor sighed. "But presumably you were inside it, with your magical core, your wand and your wizard's aura. Our situation means that we are currently no better than squibs. In fact," he paused to frown. "That may be the reason for my premature labour. Male pregnancy is an unnatural phenomenon, relying entirely on magic for sustenance."

"So your body is…rejecting the baby?" Harry realised he was beginning to get upset at their predicament. It wasn't even an attack, or a deliberate attempt to hurt Snape, just a stupid accident which was probably going to kill him. Why the hell was there a hidden cell inside the school anyway? Remembering the Chamber of Secrets he glanced around for any trace of monsters or dark magic, but the solid walls yielded nothing but the single tiny torch, flickering away. Harry fervently hoped the fire would stay lit. If the situation was dire now, it would be even worse in the dark.

He sank back to the floor, finally accepting that no one could hear him and no one would be coming until the morning. Snape writhed in pain and struggled to keep his breathing even, probably no less conscious of the frustration of being helpless inside a building full of highly-trained witches and wizards, probably only a few hundred yards from Dumbledore himself.

"He'll be gutted, you know," murmured Harry.

"What? Who will?" gasped Snape.

"Dumbledore. Bet he's looking forward to being an uncle."

"My heart bleeds," Snape sneered sarcastically. "Along with the rest of me."

Despite everything, Harry laughed. Typical of Snape to be making snide jokes at a time like this. He watched yet another painful contraction seize hold of the man's body and came to a decision. He might not be able to save either of them, but it felt wrong to just sit back and watch them die, without trying to help. Snape would probably resent the interference, though he was in no position to argue.

"Come on," said Harry, authoritatively, rolling up his sleeves and grasping the thin wrists. "Let's try walking around a bit, keep your body moving and prevent it cramping up."

"Are you insane, brat?" The pregnant man refused to be raised. "I. Am. In. Labour!"

"Yes, and things obviously aren't going well," Harry reasoned.

"Of course they're not going well!" Snape interrupted. "I am going to _die_, I thought we already established this. There is no hope."

"Then there's no harm in trying," he said cheerfully, knowing he was being infuriating. "Some exercise might make it easier, and if it doesn't, the worst that can happen is that it will kill you faster."

Snape opened his mouth to make some objection, then contemplated the wisdom of the statement for a second and closed it again.

Their progress was slow and erratic, but there was nowhere to go in any case. After stumbling around for half an hour or so, the professor grudgingly admitted that he felt a little healthier, though the contractions kept on coming.

Harry stopped keeping track of time after that, concentrating instead on regulating Snape's breathing and quietly supporting him through the pains. He found that being busy helped him forget the discomfort of the situation.

"Why are you doing this, Potter?" Snape hissed through clenched teeth, as Harry allowed his hand to be squeezed. Hard.

"Why not?" Harry replied, having no better reason. "I can either do this, or sit in the corner with my eyes closed and my fingers in my ears, pretending it's not happening."

"Mph," said Snape.

The night wore on, the pain intensified and Harry went through the stage of total exhaustion and came out the other side with a headache and a crushed hand, still sticking with his plan of being involved in the terrible birth. Snape gradually grew less coherent, spurting screams as well as oaths, bleeding and thrashing around, at one point even clinging to his student and weeping, begging for death.

"You're doing really well," Harry tried to remember what Hagrid had said to the thestral.

"Kill me, Potter, if you have a merciful fibre in your being," he sobbed.

"Not much longer," I hope, he added to himself, immediately feeling guilty for wanting a life to end. Not the life, he corrected mentally, the suffering.

More hours passed and though Harry was still trying to reassure the patient face to face, he found he could no longer ignore what was happening at the 'business end'. Resigning himself to the sight of parts of his ugliest teacher he would rather not think about, let alone stare at, he was kneeling determinedly between Snape's knees as the baby finally slithered out and the new parent lost consciousness with a last whimper.

He had known throughout the ordeal that Snape was giving birth, but somehow it was still a spine-jerking shock to be confronted with a brand-new tiny life, in all its bloody glory. The small creature looked nothing like the babies in the adverts. It wasn't pink, fluffy or giggling, for a start. It was a scrawny, lifeless thing, blue in some parts and purple in others, with a squashed face and an oddly-shaped head, covered in fifteen different types of slime and a nasty-looking white substance. There was also a thick cord still linking it to the inside of Snape.

Harry frowned. He had heard talk of cutting umbilical cords, so it was probably important to try and detach it somehow. He wondered if failing to do so would kill the baby, not that it looked particularly vivacious to begin with, and wished for the thousandth time that he knew what he was doing. He reached out to test the thickness of the cord to see if he could just rip it off, when the slippery baby, unevenly weighted and slick with blood, slid out of his one-handed grasp and hit the stone floor with a wet thunk.

Screaming like a banshee, Harry was incapable of thought for a second. Then his brain began to work.

"Shit! I dropped it! I dropped it! I've killed it! Shit! Shit! Oh my god!"

Burying his face in his hands, incredulous at his incompetence, it took the boy a little while to realise that he wasn't the only person in the room making noise. A glance at Snape revealed that he was still in an exhausted slumber, a dead faint, or a combination of the two. Which meant…

The baby was making a horrible high-pitched screeching sound and flailing its tiny arms and legs on the hard flagstones.

"You're alive!" Harry snatched it up and clasped it firmly against his chest, tears of relief and tiredness rolling down his cheeks and dripping onto it. "I'm sorry! I'm an idiot. You're just so slimy. You're alive, I'm so glad. Sorry, sorry."

Far from being placated by the apology, the baby wriggled with all its might and screamed as though attempting to burst his eardrums in revenge.

"What?" he asked it. "Are you hurt? Oh, shit, have I broken your leg or something?" He carefully examined the small body, but with all the gore and discolouration it was hard to spot any specific injury. He was not sure whether to be worried or relieved when he noticed that its skin had turned from blue to bright pink. "Is that good? What colour are you supposed to be? Oh, I wish I knew what I was doing!" he told it miserably. Figuring that it was probably cold, being wet and naked in a stone cell, he carefully placed it on the floor and tugged off his Weasley sweater, nice and soft from house-elf laundering, and wrapped the squirming thing up as best he could, holding it securely against him. This seemed to be the right thing, as it stopped crying and fell asleep.

Realising that he was still shaking from shock, Harry tried to snuggle into a corner and calm down. Strangely, it felt rather comforting to cradle the baby, like a teddy-bear soothing a nightmare-stricken child. It occasionally moved or made tiny sounds in its sleep, reassuring Harry that it was still alive, despite all expectations to the contrary. He hoped he would be allowed to hold it later, when they all got out of here, though he doubted Snape's opinion of Harry would have changed much. Dumbledore would be sure to take possession of it at regular intervals, perhaps he could pop in for lemon drops at a prearranged time and talk to it then, no need for Snape to know that his least favourite student was having contact with his child. Yes, that could work. That would be rather pleasant. That would…

He hadn't intended to fall asleep, but the next thing he knew, there was a cramping pain in his neck and dribble all over his chin as a muffled voice somewhere above him was calling his name.

"Hello?" he called drowsily.

"Harrrry!" A startled female voice. McGonagall.

"Down here! Help! We're down here!" The baby began wriggling again, but Harry was pleased to note that all the goo had dried now, making it sticky and much easier to keep hold of. He rose awkwardly, wondering if he should have tried to clean it. He licked his thumb and experimentally tried wiping a bloodclot off its chin, but was soon stopped by a piercing wail of objection.

There were more voices coming from above, and some crackling bursts of magic as attempts were made to break in.

"Oh, phew," he smiled with relief at the baby, their nightmare almost over. "You'll be OK now. These people can help you properly." He glanced over at Snape, who was still lying deathly still, with his lower regions an exploded mess of blood and _stuff_. "I hope they can sort out your Dad, too."

The next half hour passed in a blur for Harry. There were exclamations and questions. The sticky baby was taken carefully from him. How had it happened, why was it still attached, why was it filthy, was it a boy or girl, how had they got locked in, why hadn't they called for help. A mortified Dumbledore was fussing purposefully over Snape when Harry was led away in a daze by a green-tinged Ron and a clucking McGonagall. He gave as much information as could – omitting the part about dropping the baby on the stone floor – then fell into a deep sleep in the wooden chair in the Deputy's office.

…….

"Ababababababa! Ookie pookie poo! Who's the cutest lickle cutie-pie in the castle? You are! Yes, you are! A-booboobooboo!"

Harry hovered in the doorway, watching Dumbledore babbling nonsensically at the two-day-old baby on his arm. Sensing his presence, Snape turned and shot him a long-suffering look from the bed. Harry grinned. Though still pale and a long way from full health, the professor was alive and possessed of a new…something…in his eye. Not a glint, exactly, but rather a spark of determination, as though Death could bloody well watch out if it was trying to interpose between this particular parent and child. Harry wondered if he was seeing the same 'power the Dark Lord knew not' that his own mother had stirred to make his 18-month-old self impervious to Voldemort's curse.

He cleared his throat. The Headmaster looked up from his baby-talk and greeted him.

"Ah, Harry! Come to visit this luvverly wuvverly teeny weeny liddle angel, have you?" He addressed the question to the baby, who made no comment.

"Um, no actually," he kept his face straight. "I was hoping to have a word with Professor Snape, if feels well enough." Snape nodded acquiescence.

"Splendid!" exclaimed Dumbledore. "I shall leave you two in private, in that case." He strolled cheerfully out, until halted in his tracks by the new father.

"Hoi!" croaked Snape.

"Yes, dear boy?" asked Dumbledore, mildly.

Snape glared, pointed a sharp index finger at the baby in Dumbledore's arms, then at the crib beside his bed.

"Now, Severus," he looked faintly abashed. "I just thought I would take Miss Snape for a nice bit of fresh air."

The black eyes narrowed and the stabbing finger repeated its message. Baby. Crib. Now.

"Well, perhaps later," Dumbledore looked disappointed, but was clearly no match for a maternally outraged Head of Slytherin. He babbled a farewell to the baby and installed it carefully in the cot, his every movement tracked with a defensive ferocity by Snape.

Once the Headmaster had closed the door behind him, Harry sank into the visitor's chair and observed Snape observing him.

"I'm glad you're going to be all right," he began honestly. "And the baby. Have you thought of a name yet?"

"Certain traditions would dictate 'Harriet', given the circumstances," muttered Snape glumly. Harry screwed his face up.

"No! That's awful! Don't do that," he said. Snape smirked.

"Still playing the reluctant hero, Potter?" he drawled.

"Hardly a hero," the teenager sighed. "I had no clue what I was doing. I actually dropped her on the floor when she was about ten seconds old. And I don't think I'll ever get over the shock of the whole episode."

"You dropped her?" Snape repeated, with dangerous softness.

"She was slippy! It was like trying to hold an oiled quaffle!" Harry protested quickly. "Besides, Madam Pomfrey says the impact did no harm, in fact, it probably started her breathing, just like when a midwife gives a child a slap." The snippet of information had gone some way towards assuaging his guilt at his own clumsiness, so he was taking it as fact.

"Mmph," growled Snape, deciding for the moment to award him the benefit of the doubt. "There is no way of knowing whether you saved our lives, or whether we would have survived on our own regardless, but…" he interrupted himself with a snort before forcing out the rest, "…but you must have done something right."

Harry opened his mouth to acknowledge the reluctant thanks but Snape, probably hating being indebted to another Potter, leaped in before he could speak.

"Eleanor," he said quickly.

"Pardon?" blinked Harry.

"Eleanor Snape. Or Elizabeth," he gazed over at the crib, where a small arm could just be glimpsed, waving erratically above the rim. Harry felt a sudden rush of warmth for the professor. He was asking Harry's opinion on a name for his daughter, most likely because he would have drowned himself sooner than express direct gratitude to his least favourite pupil.

Rising from the chair, he walked around the bed to look at the baby for the first time since handing her over on the morning of her birth, bloody and wrapped inexpertly in his old jumper. She was looking a lot nicer. The matted mess on the top of her head was now a kitten-soft crown of jet black hair, and long black lashes flickered above enormous blue eyes. Her skin was a rosy shade of light pink. Harry reached down to touch her hand and she grabbed him with perfect little fingers of surprising strength.

"She doesn't look like a Lizzie," he commented, a little overwhelmed at having such sway over someone's life. "And definitely not a Harriet! Eleanor? Yes, I like Eleanor." Snape made a sound of agreement and reached over to lift the small body into his arms, where she immediately grabbed a handful of his nightshirt and began wriggling as though her life depended on it. Harry was pleased to note that she didn't seem to have inherited the huge hooked nose, when suddenly a thought struck him.

"Sir?" he asked. "Doesn't her father get a say in her name? Her other father, I mean." Snape fussed with his daughter's blanket and ignored him. "There must have been someone else…um…involved." Realising that he was blushing worse than Ron, Harry fell silent. The teacher sighed heavily.

"No, Mr Potter, he has no rights over this child. It is none of his business," Harry recognised the warning, but couldn't help himself.

"Isn't he interested?" He regretted the question even before he had finished asking it. Snape's sex life was not an area that he ought to be investigating. Snape sent a searching look at the teenager, as though deciding how much information he could, or would impart. "I won't tell anyone," Harry promised quickly. Snape's eyes returned to his lively little girl.

"I suppose you deserve some explanation, given your involvement in the proceedings. I had no intention of becoming pregnant. An act of grave irresponsibility with a gentleman of a few hours' acquaintance during the last week of the summer holiday resulted in Eleanor's conception. He is neither aware of the situation, nor that males can be capable of childbearing." It was Snape's turn to blush.

"A one-off?" Harry was glad that his voice sounded mature, despite his first instinct to run away and squirm painfully in a corner somewhere. A nod confirmed this. "With a muggle?" Nod. "Oh."

"I should not be so scathing towards Albus," Snape sighed at last. "He would be within his rights to fire me for being so foolish, to leave me fending for myself. I am extremely lucky that he is so keen to lend his support."

There didn't seem to be much to say in answer to that. Harry brushed his hand over Eleanor's forehead and said goodbye to Snape, returning slowly to his dorm with a lot to think about.

…….

Some unidentified ritual had made the Death Eaters resistant to every spell the Light threw at them.

Jinxes and hexes bounced right off, binding spells, slowing spells, stunners and disarmers did nothing to stop the advance of evil. Their opponents could do little else but try to protect themselves from the onslaught, as they advanced, throwing devastating curses like confetti.

An elderly couple from Hogsmeade dashed out to try and catch their dog, which was leaping crazed through the crossfire, and were mown down instantly. Madam Rosmerta dropped her wand as two blasting curses struck her magical shield simultaneously, and in the moment she struggled to retrieve it, a Death Eater with long blond hair cast 'Avada Kedavra'. She fell without a sound.

Three deaths were enough to convince Mad-eye Moody. Before Lucius had chance to raise his wand again, old auror's killing curse struck home and he slid to the ground.

"Alastor! No!" shouted Dumbledore from the midst of the fighting.

"It works!" Mad-eye rasped. "Dammit, Albus. It's the only spell that'll touch 'em!"

"Moody is right," Snape yelled, a cluster of terrified younger students huddled behind him, and his blazing wand. "It's a war, not a tea-party! They cannot be allowed to continue!"

A 'Sectumsempra' ripped through Luna Lovegood while the broken argument bounced around the battlefield.

"Just stop them!" shrieked McGonagall. "I don't care how! They've already done enough!"

Harry wasn't sure what his stance on killing Death Eaters was, right up to the point when he tripped over Dennis Creevey's body. His brother, Colin, stood shakily beside it, trying to protect himself from the unrelenting onslaught through his tears.

"Harry," the younger boy wailed. "They aren't stopping. They aren't even slowing down!"

The recipient of Harry's first ever 'Avada Kedavra' turned out to be Wormtail. Harry reasoned that he had spared the traitor's life once, only to have him go on to commit worse acts of evil. The second was Bellatrix, which he told himself was revenge for Sirius and Neville's parents. The third was the anonymous masked figure which brought down Professor Sprout; fourth a hulking great brute grappling on the floor with Ron; fifth was a very determined soul who managed to wound both Harry and Tonks. Five people, dead at his hand. But Snape was right, this was war. He told himself there was no time for reflection just then.

Number six was Voldemort.

…….

Ron's false leg had decided to take itself for a hop around the castle, leaving its hapless owner cursing impotently in bed.

"Harry, come on, you have to be reasonable," puffed Hermione. "You did what had to be done and you did it well." Harry leaned against the wall to catch his breath for a second.

"I'm a killer, whichever way you argue it," he gasped despondently, then with a growl of concentration, dived forwards with all his seeker's swiftness. The leg high-kicked away out of his reach and clunked off happily down the stairs. Hermione pelted after it, calling back over her shoulder to Harry:

"You killed six people in order to save hundreds!"

"Yeah," he panted to himself. "I'm a hero."

"Otter," said a little voice behind him. Harry looked up to see Eleanor sitting on her father's hip, reaching out at him, big black eyes demanding cuddles.

"Hello, Trouble; hello, Sir," he shoved a few strands of hair out of his eyes and greeted them both, trying to regain some kind of composure.

"Otter!" scowled Eleanor, with perfect Snapish disapproval at not being instantly obeyed.

"OK, OK, Madam wants a hug?" Knowing better than to refuse an order from the toddler, he lifted her up and enjoyed the flood of peace her innocent presence always gave him. He closed his eyes as she hung around his neck and tried to rip off his glasses.

"In difficulty, Potter?" Snape was staring intently at him.

"Yeah, Ron's leg ran off again," he tried diversionary tactics.

"Hah hah! Bad leg!" squealed Eleanor, clapping her hands with glee.

"It is a Weasley possession, my dear," Snape explained. "Therefore ill-disciplined, tatty and probably second-hand. You are correct, a very bad leg."

"Yeth," she agreed seriously.

Harry was too out of breath to argue. The baby had his specs now, and was completely absorbed in examining them and trying to pull them apart. He felt oddly vulnerable without them screening him from the outside world.

"I'm a murderer," he said quietly, knowing that Snape would offer no platitudes or try to deny the truth.

"Indeed," Snape offered. "Me too."

"You've lived with it for years, how do you cope?" It came out as a whine, but Snape refrained from jeering.

"I attempted to make amends. Nothing can bring back the dead - and bear in mind, Potter, that the six you killed were by no means innocent, unlike some of mine - but one can act in such a way that improves the lot of the living. Albus put it very bluntly when I first came to confess. He told me that his first instinct was to send me to Azkaban with the other killers, but that nothing would be achieved bar the ruination of one more life. He gave me the chance at working towards making things better, spying for the Order, then teaching. I know few students enjoyed my lessons, but a gratifying number of them have gone on to achieve great things in the field of potions - I like to think I have been instrumental in training the minds of some of the most inventive brewers the world has ever seen."

Harry wrested his glasses back and put them on to look at Snape.

"Small compensations, Potter," his lip curled wryly, "But even great things start off small. Occasionally it all gets too much and I have to go out and…"

"…and get laid by strange muggles?" Harry became waspish in his emotional state. Irritatingly, Snape did not rise.

"Precisely," he agreed, retrieving his daughter and looking at her pointedly. "And a truly great thing happened last time I did that."

……

Many people, such as Ron, thought he was crazy. Others, like Hermione, applauded him for doing the right thing. Not that Harry particularly cared what anyone else thought about his decision – he had agonised all summer about how to spend the rest of his life, and there were certain steps he needed to take for his plan to come to fruition.

Re-sitting his NEWTs was the only way a mediocre student like Harry would stand a chance at being accepted into his new choice of career, though it would take a year to achieve. Amazingly, given that his mind had been fairly preoccupied with battling Voldemort, his initial grades had been fine, but nowhere near the high standard required for what he wanted to do. Snape had been the one to suggest simply taking the whole lot again, this time paying more attention to his work than to twinges in his scar or larking around with Ron.

No one was more surprised than Harry when he discovered that he was actually enjoying study. He found that doing the required reading meant that instead of concentrating on avoiding questions in class, he could actually enter into debate about them; that extra research meant an essay was a fascinating challenge of his personal opinions, rather than an all-night torture session. By November, he had transformed himself from an 'Acceptable' student into an 'Outstanding' one.

"How have you turned into such a nerd?" Ginny whispered crossly, discovering that he had gained twice as many points as her in the end of term test.

"It's different now that I know why I'm doing this," he tried to explain. "Before it was all a load of boring nonsense which got in the way of my fun, now I know that I might actually need these potions one day. I want to understand." He glanced up at the teacher's desk, where Snape was not even bothering to pretend he wasn't eavesdropping, installed in his old spot now the fume-free pregnancy sabbatical as DADA professor was over. He favoured Harry with a glittering smirk.

…….

"Healer Potter!" Harry bit back the frustrated sigh and turned around, hoping his face didn't show that he was dying to pop down to the break-room and drink enough coffee to drown himself in.

"It's _Harry_, Colin," he told the excited new father. "How can I help?"

"I just wanted to say thank you for everything you've done tonight, I thought I was going to lose them!" Colin beamed, shaking his hand for possibly the twentieth time that evening.

"You already thanked me, mate," he reassured him, walking away to underline the message. "Now go and spend some time with your husband and son."

"We're calling him Dennis," he smiled sadly. "After my brother. It's been nearly fifteen years! Can you believe it? Seems like lifetimes ago!"

"Really? It feels like just last week," Harry hated thinking about this kind of thing. His self-loathing at knowing he killed Death Eaters would soon be jostling for position with the self-loathing which said that if he had started killing them a few minutes earlier, perhaps people like Dennis Creevey would still be alive. He waved farewell to Colin and practically ran down the corridor.

Grabbing his coffee from the break-room, he decided to spend two minutes drinking it in the garden to clear his head. It had been a close call withthe babyand he had barely paused for breath during the last eight hours in the delivery suite.

St Mungo's gardens were lovely at night – lit by fairies and the odd everlasting candle, the flowers seemed to smell stronger, the fountains to play more gently, the whole place to be more soothing and restful than in the daytime. Harry stretched his aching back and sat down on a bench to sip his drink.

Perhaps he had failed Dennis Creevey on the battlefield, but he had just saved little Dennis Creevey-Smith. 'Small compensations,' Snape had said. He must remember this next time the black clouds descended.

"Knut for 'em!" sang a cheery voice, cutting into his reverie.

"Hi, Tonks," he stood up. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm in overnight for observation," she pointed to a bandage on her calf, just visible below the hospital-issue nightgown. "Got bitten by a cursed sandwich toaster up in Uttoxeter this morning. I'm fine though, it's just a formality!"

"Well, they're not observing you very well if you've sneaked out here," he smirked at her. She threw her head back and roared, punching him in the shoulder with big-sisterly affection.

"You know, Harry," she looked at him closely, going serious for a moment. "I bet you're sick of having to explain after all this time, but you were so determined to become an auror when you were younger. Don't get me wrong, I hear nothing but great reports about what you're doing here, but you never seemed the type to go into healing, especially not Male Obstetrics! Aren't you the only non-gay member of staff in the whole department?"

Harry finished his last mouthful of coffee, smiling to himself.

"It was after the battle," he began the familiar story. Tonks would probably understand, though plenty of others hadn't. "I was only seventeen but I had already seen so much death. My parents, Professor Quirrell, Cedric Diggory, Sirius, Colin Creevey, Luna and the rest of them at the end. It was as though the only positive, non-violent thing I'd ever done was help Snape deliver Eleanor, though even that felt pretty disastrous at the time. I still can't really explain it. Being an auror looked like it was all about death and fighting and I just couldn't face any more of that."

Tonks gazed into the distance as she thought about his words, and he almost expected to get an admonishment about his perceptions of an auror's life. When none was forthcoming, he felt oddly reassured.

"But sometimes you lose babies, don't you? And birth-fathers? I know since you founded the specialist Male Delivery Suite the survival rate had increased dramatically, but it must be hard for a man of your sensitivity to cope with that," she spoke clearly, but her brow was furrowed and Harry realised he had omitted another casualty of the war – the unborn werewolf cub Tonks had not even known she had been carrying. He never interfered in anyone's personal relationships, but fifteen years down the line, there had been no more children. Sometimes Harry felt maliciously glad for killing Death Eaters, like now, when he remembered murdering the one who had caused his friend irreparable damage and denied her the possibility of motherhood.

"It's horrible," he nodded. "But it's happening less and less often. We're advancing in leaps and bounds."

Sometimes he felt selfish for wanting to be surrounded by hope and positive thoughts about the future, for enjoying the satisfaction of holding a newborn baby whose life he had saved, for feeling secretly smug that so many of the younger generation had 'Harry' or 'Harriet' as their middle name, courtesy of grateful dads.

Snape had advised him to try and make people's lives better. By and large, he liked to think he had succeeded. Harry knew that he was lucky to be able to derive so much personal satisfaction from his career – much more than Snape ever had, he suspected, though the old git still thrived at Hogwarts on a staple diet of bile and martyrdom.

How odd that his sworn enemy turned out to be the person who understood him best. Twenty years ago he would have jinxed anyone who had suggested that the most comfortable conversations he ever had were with a man who used to hate him, even if they only happened once or twice a year. Harry's life was not unlike Snape's had been in his thirties, he had realised. Married to his job, no time for sociability, finding it difficult to move forward because so much seemed to hold him back; last week Harry had completed five 14-hour shifts in a row and been too tired to wash his hair. He had been startled by how little he cared about the oily strands hanging limply in his eyes.

Two greasy gits, both trying to atone for events it was too late to change.

Two murderers who were sometimes called heroes.

Two killers nurturing new life.

Ridiculous, really, but that is what war does to people.

…….

AN: Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear what you think! Love SN x


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